


Absolution

by faikitty



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Incest, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:39:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faikitty/pseuds/faikitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gilbert hates who he is when he’s with Vincent. Pandora Hearts Secret Santa 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiniestdormouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiniestdormouse/gifts).



> I'm sorry, Mom.
> 
> As a reminder, don't actually do breathplay like this. You can SERIOUSLY hurt your partner. Cover the mouth and nose and have a safety signal that's not based on speaking. Safety first, kiddos.

Gilbert hates who he is when he’s with Vincent.

At first he thinks Vincent must be drunk. But he tastes only cinnamon and cloves and vanilla on the other man’s lips, a warmth that transfers from through their kiss, and somehow that’s even _worse_. If they were both drunk, as they have been on similar occasions, they could blame this folly on that. But with no alcohol stoking the fire in his chest and blurring his gaze, Gilbert is forced to face the situation head on.

Vincent kisses like the devil, his lips soft but teeth fierce, and Gilbert has _never_ been able to resist that. He doesn’t pull away, even when his brother’s hand fits into the small of his back to pull his hips forward. His lips part to let Vincent do as he pleases, knees weak, and it comes as no surprise when Vincent leans back, his hand drifting down Gilbert’s arm to wrap fingers firmly around his wrist. There’s no question on his face, only a smile as he leads Gilbert down the hallway to his room.

It isn’t until Vincent has sat on his bed and is gazing at his brother expectantly that Gilbert comes to his senses. Even with the lights off, candles blown out and only the full moon beyond the window to show his face, Gilbert can see parts of himself in Vincent’s face: the differently colored eyes but same small almond shape that they inherited from their father, the high cheeks and small chin from their mother. “Wait,” he says, taking a single step back and glancing toward the door and the light of the hall. “You know we—”

“’You _know_ we _shouldn’t_ , Vincent,’” the blond finishes mockingly. He stands, grabs Gilbert’s forearm, and pulls him down onto the bed. There’s no violence in the motion; there never is with Gilbert. There’s only hunger, only starving _want_ when he forces Gilbert into another kiss, arms wrapped tightly around his back to keep his brother there in spite of all his protestations.

“Vincent—” Gilbert breathes against his brother’s lips. “Stop—I said _stop_.” He pushes himself away, shoves Vincent down until the blond is on his back. His hand fits against Vincent’s neck in an attempt at keeping his brother away for at least a few seconds—but Vincent’s breathing changes and time slows to a crawl as Gilbert realizes his situation. His thumb lingers over the fluttering pulse in the hollow of Vincent’s throat. The blond makes a sound that’s halfway between a whine and laughter, and he tilts his chin up to add to the pressure on his neck. And Gilbert doesn’t mean to press down, never intended to get this far in the first place, not like _this_ , but now he can’t stop, finds himself too mesmerized by how his brother’s cheeks darken at the heavy touch. Vincent’s lips part and he takes a slow, rasping breath, eyes locking with his brother’s.

It’s just enough to make him realize what he’s doing.

Gilbert jerks his hands away, his breath suddenly catching in his chest as if _he’s_ the one who can’t breathe. He twists his fingers together and squeezes until his knuckles turn white.

“What’s wrong, Gil?” Vincent murmurs, already upright and leaning forward to drape thin arms over his brother’s shoulders. “I never asked you to stop.”

 _He acts like he doesn’t know_ , Gilbert thinks wryly, casting an uncertain glance at the blond. _I don’t want to—_

He can’t finish his thought, can’t even really take in a whole breath because Vincent laughs, looks at Gilbert through light, shadowy lashes, and draws his brother’s hand close to him until it once more rests on his throat. Gilbert can feel the blond’s pulse speeding up as his free hand comes to rest on Vincent’s chest.

“Stop it, Vincent,” he tries to say, but his voice is hoarse with uncertainty and want.

“You’re a horrible liar, Gil,” Vincent murmurs, slowly letting his own arm down while Gilbert’s hand remains, now held there by his own volition. “You can’t even fool yourself. Or perhaps you don’t remember the last time you were in here? I _know_ how you like to choke me, to strangle me until I’m on the verge of consciousness.”

“Vince—”

“You were quite drunk, as I recall,” Vincent muses, and Gilbert can feel himself losing a fight he isn’t even a part of. “ _You_ came to _me_ that time. You’re sexy when you’re in control.” He leans his head to one side and curls his lips up in a cat-like smile. “You’re even sexier when you _aren’t_.”

“Shut up,” Gilbert rasps, his fingers tightening on Vincent’s throat in self-defense—or what he claims to be self-defense, since there’s nothing to defend himself from. He can feel himself slipping, as his brother makes his self-control falter as he so often does “Don’t talk about that.”

“You can _make_ me silent, you know.”

“I won’t.”

Vincent laughs and leans forward ever so slightly into the pressure. “Do you want to _kill_ me, Gil?”

That’s when Gilbert _knows_ he’s lost.

He shoves Vincent down, clambers over him, and puts weight on his neck. His fingers instinctively go to the sides, and it hurts him to realize he’s done this enough to know _how_ to do it, how not to crush Vincent’s windpipe because he _doesn’t_ want to kill him, just to cut off oxygen, to starve his lungs of air. “Is _this_ what you want?” Gilbert feels his voice crack, knows it gives away everything he feels even as he tries to pretend he doesn’t. “ _Why_?”

Vincent can’t laugh; he can’t pull enough air into him to push it back past his vocal cords, but his body shakes in what Gilbert knows is silent laughter. “ _Gilbert_ ,” he purrs, the name broken but pleasant on his tongue. In response, Gilbert pushes harder and drags his knee up to press it between his brother’s legs. The movement draws a groan up into Vincent’s throat, but Gilbert’s fingers tighten to kill it before it can spill from his lips. The blond’s face darkens, his eyes squeezed shut as his throat works to pull in air, but Gilbert doesn’t let him—and hates himself for it.

Vincent’s back arches until it _must_ be painful, fingers digging at the sheets in an instinctual desperation to fight the black creeping into his vision, to find _some_ way to breathe. _Yes_ , Gilbert thinks as his brother’s arms lift to grasp his own. _Stop me_. But Vincent’s fingers settle slack on his arms even with the rest of his body as taut as a board. Gilbert watches, half-aware that he’s no longer breathing or blinking either, as Vincent’s lungs visibly burn for air, his face darker even by faint moonlight.

His unfocused eyes lid halfway, a faint smile on his lips as they fall closed. His body goes slack like a snapped rubber band.

Gilbert loosens his grip immediately, fear and adrenaline spiking dizzily through him as he waits, heart barely beating, for Vincent to move again. And _finally_ he does; Vincent’s entire body curls painfully off the bed as he gasps, eyes flying open and panic-wide despite his refusal to fight back. Gilbert closes his eyes from the sight of his brother fighting for air, drags trembling fingers down his face, and presses his palm to his forehead. But he can’t block out the _sounds_ , and the fits of coughing and audibly strained breaths make him want to get up and walk out the door.

“And you claim you don’t like this,” Vincent drawls after a few moments. The taunt is all the more effective for its truth, evidenced by the harsh rasp now present in his normally honeyed tones. Gilbert doesn’t answer; he refuses to, doubts he could speak clearly even if he tried. His face is still hidden by his hand and his nails dig sharp into his skin. “Hey.” He can _hear_ the frown in Vincent’s voice. “Don’t tell me you’re giving up when we’ve only just started.”

“I could have—”

“ _Don’t_.” Gilbert jumps slightly at the barked order. He relaxes his hand and peels open his eyes to see Vincent’s inches from his—and blatantly angry. “Don’t tell me you ‘could have killed me.’ It takes much more than _that_ to come even _close_ to killing me. Even I have more of a sense of self-preservation than that.” Gilbert looks down sharply at the bitterness in his tone, unable to meet his brother’s mismatched eyes. Then he hears a sigh and feels smooth, almost femininely soft fingers brush against his cheek to cup it in a warm palm. Vincent looks almost apologetic when Gilbert glances hesitantly back up, and that hurts worse than his anger. “You’re too kind for your own good.”

Then they’re kissing again. Vincent dips down, his lips pressed to his brother’s throat, softness then pain as gentle lips turn to biting teeth. Vincent’s hands feel like they’re everywhere; all Gilbert can do is rest against him, his body pressing into his brother’s hands until Vincent’s fingers slide over his abdomen. Gilbert jerks at the contact, his breath skidding to a near halt as Vincent’s fingers slip beneath his waistband. He means to lean back, push away, offer _some_ sort of protest—but instead he folds in and leans forward, the breathless moan that comes from him as Vincent strokes up on his cock offering nothing but complacency. His hips twitch forward of their own accord as his fingers close around his brother’s wrist, still doing little to stop him. He hadn’t realized hard he was until now, not until the drag of Vincent’s palm over his cock makes it go all the harder.

It’s so sudden when he moves that even Gilbert himself is caught off guard, to say nothing of Vincent, thrown roughly onto his back on the bed beneath him. The blond blinks twice then smiles in understanding, and Gilbert doesn’t _want_ to be this way, hates that he needs to be in control of at least this to make himself feel like he’s in control of _all_ of it. But that is how he is, and that’s _okay_ , because when he kisses Vincent with the intent to bruise, he tastes like absolution.

“On your stomach,” Gilbert orders when they break apart, no longer sure which of them he’s doing this for. He’s never been one to _give_ commands, always subservient to Oz, but Vincent has always looked at him like he hung the moon—and that makes him feel _strong_. The blond’s mismatched eyes are brighter than stars right now, and Vincent obeys without complaint, nothing but a smirk on his lips as he rolls over to sprawl on his stomach on the sheets. Gilbert pulls his brother’s slacks off and undoes the buttons of his shirt before dealing with his own.

He makes the decision in an instant; in one swift motion he pulls the red ribbon from Vincent’s hair, forces his hands together, and uses it to bind his wrists tight to the bed frame. He catches a glimpse of his brother’s face as he leans forward, sees his face flush with anticipation.

Then it’s a game, a familiar test of patience.

Gilbert grabs the oils, slicks up his fingers, and wastes no time in sliding them into Vincent. He’s going a degree more quickly than usual, less gentle and caring because he can’t afford to care, not like this. He lets his free hand slide around to hold Vincent’s sharp hips, lingers inches from his cock. “You’re so caring, Gil,” Vincent does his best to tease, but the last syllable is lost to a sharp intake of breath as Gilbert’s fingers slide deeper inside him. “Always— taking your time.”

“You like to hurt more than I do” is Gilbert’s simple answer, surprisingly smooth given how quickly his heart is beating. The next slide of his fingers is slow, deliberate, would be mean if it didn’t make Vincent’s body tense and tremble.

“Hurry up,” Vincent blurts, his normally calm and mellifluous speech tinged with impatience and something bordering desperation. His hips grind into the sheets seemingly subconsciously, push his cock against the fabric in a vain attempt to get friction. “ _Please_.”

In some perverse way, hearing his brother pleading with him is satisfying, but— “Begging doesn’t suit you.” Gilbert curls his fingers, twists them back and up, and Vincent’s breath cuts off abruptly as if Gilbert were choking him again.

“ _God_ , just—” Vincent breaks off as Gilbert slides another finger into him, sinking forward to press his face into the pillow in defeat. His body trembles against Gilbert’s skin as he resigns himself to waiting, hips still moving in time with the motions of his brother’s fingers.

And in the end, Gilbert runs out of patience first.

He drags his fingers out and Vincent lets out a shaky breath, twisting his head around to try to see what his brother is doing. Gilbert fumbles with his own pants and slicks up his cock before he rocks forward, slides past the light friction of Vincent’s thighs and into him. The blond’s entire body goes rigid for a moment then melts into pleasure. Gilbert reaches forward to close his fingers loosely around Vincent’s cock and then he moves, forward and back and drawing moans from the blond with each thrust.

Gilbert’s hands fist in his brother’s hair, streaks of blond tangled in his grasp as he jerks his arm back, Vincent’s head snapping back to form a sharp angle to his back. It can’t _possibly_ feel good; it _must_ hurt, should take Vincent from pleasure into pain, but his unsteady gulps of breath sound more pleased than hurt. He lets go then of Vincent’s cock to bring his fingers up and brush them against Vincent’s lips. The blond opens his mouth to pull them in willingly, sucking on them hungrily as if he were sucking Gilbert’s cock, and that only makes Gilbert go impossibly hard inside him.

Vincent’s back arches, changes the angle ever so slightly, and apparently that’s just enough because he gives a sudden gasp, pulling against his restraints until Gilbert is certain he’ll break them. Gilbert takes away his fingers to make handholds of the blond’s hips and forces him to keep them there as he thrusts into him again and again, while Vincent can only moan and push his face into the crook of his arm as if it will help.

“Fuck,” Vincent groans. “Gil…” Then his name comes louder, more needy and high-pitched, and Gilbert _knows_ he should silence him but can’t bring himself to.

In that moment, Gilbert doesn’t care who hears.

“Do you _want_ people to hear you?” he murmurs, doing his best to mimic Vincent’s demeanor from earlier. The effect is only somewhat lessened by his voice cracking. “You want people to _know_ that your _brother_ is fucking you?”

For Gilbert, it’s strange, attempting dirty talk in the first place and swearing on top of that, but for Vincent, the effect is immediate. He stiffens, cock leaving dampness on the sheets, and presses his face into the pillow as he gasps “ _yes_ ” against the fabric.

“Do you think they already know?” Gilbert rests his fingers on his brother’s neck, a threat or a promise or both in the action. “Your life is in my hands,” he whispers, leaning far enough forward that his lips are almost against Vincent’s ears. “You’re mine.”

Vincent gives a moan and the words tumble mouth as he spills over the sheets: “Always.” He falls forward, sweat-slicked hair glued to his face, his body shaking with a bone-deep exhaustion. Gilbert follows a split second later, pulling out to come over Vincent’s back. He drops off to the side, stares at the back of Vincent’s head as he tries to even out his breathing and clear his vision. He can still hear Vincent taking little gulps of breath. His brother seems small like this, almost innocent, trying to curl in on himself in spite of the ribbon holding his wrists to the bedframe.

The magnitude of what he has said and done hits Gilbert all at once.

His face turns scarlet, and he reaches up swiftly to undo the ribbon. Vincent draws his hands in to his chest and holds them there, back still turned to Gilbert as he lays silent on his side. Gilbert swallows past the lump in his throat and opens his mouth to say something, anything, even just Vincent’s name. But he can’t. Nothing comes out—and there’s nothing to _say_ in the first place.

He wants to leave.

He _needs_ to leave. He needs to escape, to find some way to get rid of this damned guilt in his veins. He gathers his clothes in an instant and pulls them on in even less time so he can leave as quickly as possible.

 But when a single arm snakes out from beneath the blankets to grab his coat loosely with shaky fingers—shaky with exhaustion or emotion, he can’t tell—he knows he can’t.

So instead he sits, makes peace with himself since he knows Vincent can’t. His fingers card through his brother’s hair, and for just a moment, they’re young again, no longer like _this_. He lies down and takes Vincent into his arm, feels a silent shake of what he assumes is laughter, and closes his eyes. For now, he’ll stay, as much Vincent’s as Vincent is his.

For now, they can be together.


End file.
